The Kill Room

East Street.
    “It’s taking a longer time than I would have thought.”
    Thom didn’t reply. The area grew scruffier as they headed south. More hurricane damage, more shacks, more goats and chickens.
    They passed a sign:
    Protect Ya Things!
    Use a Rubber EVERYTIME
    Rhyme had had to make several calls to find exactly where Mychal Poitier was located—naturally without calling the corporal himself. Nassau had a separate Central Detective Unit, not attached to headquarters. Poitier had implied he was working with the CDU but the receptionist there said that while she believed he was assigned to the unit he wasn’t based there. She wasn’t sure where his office was.
    Finally he’d called the main number and learned Poitier was at the RBPF headquarters on East Street.
    When they arrived Rhyme looked around the facility through the spattered glass of the van’s windows. Headquarters was a complex of mismatched structures—with the main building modern and light-colored, in the shape of a cross laid flat. Ancillary buildings were scattered randomly around the grounds. One seemed to be a lockup (a nearby side street was named Prison Lane). The grounds were a mix of grass—some patches trim, some shaggy—and parking lots dusted with pebbles and sand.
    Functional law enforcement.
    They got out of the van. Again, the piquant smell of smoke was in the air. Ah, yes. With a glance at a nearby private residence’s backyard, Rhyme realized the source: trash fires. They must be everywhere.
    “Look, Lincoln, we need one of those,” Pulaski said. He was pointing toward the front of the main building.
    “What?” Rhyme snapped. “A building, a radio antenna, a doorknob, a jail?”
    “A crest.”
    The RBPF did have a rather impressive logo, promising the citizens of the islands courage, integrity and loyalty. Where on earth could you find all three of these in one tidy package?
    “I’ll buy you a T-shirt for a souvenir, rookie.” Rhyme motored his way up the sidewalk and brashly into the lobby, an unimpressive place, scuffed and dinged. Ants crawled and flies strafed. There seemed to be no plainclothes cops; everyone was in uniform. Most commonly these were white jackets and black trousers with subdued red stripes on the side; the few women officers wore such jackets and striped skirts. Much of the personnel—who were all black—had headgear, traditional police hats or white sun helmets.
    Colonial…
    A dozen locals and tourists waited on benches or in line to speak to officers, presumably to report a crime. Mostly they seemed put out, rather than traumatized. Rhyme assumed the bulk of cases here would be pickpocketing, missing passports, groping, stolen cameras and cars.
    He was aware of the attention he and his small entourage were drawing. A middle-aged couple, American or Canadian, was in line ahead of him. “No, sir, please, you go first.” The wife was speaking as if to a five-year-old. “We insist.”
    Rhyme resented their condescension and Thom, sensing this, stiffened, probably expecting a tirade, but the criminalist smiled and thanked them. The waves he intended to make would be reserved for the RBPF itself.
    A tall man presently at the head of the queue in front of Rhyme had gleaming black skin and wore jeans and an untucked shirt. He was complaining to an attractive and attentive desk officer about a stolen goat.
    “It might have walked off,” the woman said.
    “No, no, the rope was cut. I took a picture. Do you want to see? It was cut with a knife. I have pictures! My neighbor. I know my neighbor did this.”
    Tool mark evidence could link the cut pattern on the rope to the neighbor’s blade. Hemp fibers are particularly adhesive; there would have been some evidentiary transfer. There’d been a recent rain. Footprints surely still existed.
    Easy case, Rhyme reflected, smiling to himself. He wished Sachs were here so he could share the story with her.
    Goats…
    The man was persuaded to search a bit longer.
    Then Rhyme moved forward. The desk officer rose slightly and peered down at him. He asked for Mychal Poitier.
    “Yes, I’ll call him. You are, please?”
    “Lincoln Rhyme.”
    She placed the call. “Corporal, it’s Constable Bethel, at the desk. A Lincoln Rhyme and some other people are here to see you.” She stared down at her beige, old-fashioned phone, growing tenser as she listened. “Well, yes, Corporal. He’s here, as I was saying…Well, he’s right in front of me.”
    Had